A key was hidden behind a brick, tenth from the ground, fifth from the door. I unlocked the door and peered inside. No crowd of armed thugs was waiting to pounce on me, so I nudged Ghost inside with my shin, checked that the coast was clear, and hustled inside, pulling the door shut behind me. The door looked frail and rickety, but it moved heavily, hinting at a steel core hidden beneath layers of weathered wood.

Ghost and I found ourselves in a storeroom with wire shelves stocked with dry and canned goods. I peered around the corner and saw a beaded curtain beyond which was the store. A clerk—the owner, Jamsheed Mustapha, I presumed—stood behind a counter pouring dry lentils onto a scale while an old woman watched. I crept to the edge of the doorway to eavesdrop, hoping they weren’t talking about the best way to sharpen stakes. They weren’t. They were sharing their outrage about the mosque bombing, which I imagine was still the number one topic of conversation in the country. The clerk did not look at me, although he’d probably gotten some signal that the security door had been opened.

In the corner of the storeroom was a tiny bathroom permanently marked “Under Repair.” I opened the door and again had to push Ghost inside. He was still sluggish and muzzy from the Taser and was recovering very slowly. Tasers are configured to knock out an adult male, not a hundred-pound dog. I’m lucky that son of a bitch hadn’t killed my son of a bitch.

I shut the door and sat down on the closed toilet seat. The stall was immaculate, and when I placed my palm flat on the wall I could feel its solidity and sense the faintest tremble of well-concealed electronics. If this was a safe house approved by Church then it was very likely built with “secure-pod” technology, something one of Church’s friends was bringing to market. An ultrasecure, ultrahardened capsule similar to the escape pod used on Air Force One. This one didn’t go anywhere, but it would offer physical protection and a secure spot for making reports.

Ghost immediately flopped onto the floor and whimpered softly. I bent down and ran my hands over him, checking to make sure that the Taser shock and burn were the only injuries he had sustained.

“You okay, fur-monster?” I asked.

He gave me an “Are you frigging kidding me?” look, but even with that he managed a wag. Just one, but there it was.

“Don’t know about you,” I said, “but I kinda want to switch gears from running and hiding to chasing and maiming.”

He curled a quarter inch of muzzle to show me one fang. Better than nothing.